


One Last Thing

by lookingforatardis



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Angst, Fix-It, M/M, Reunion, The Author Regrets Nothing, bookverse, idk man what do you expect from me tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-12 07:00:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15334419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookingforatardis/pseuds/lookingforatardis
Summary: "It’s a sign, one last opportunity for you to get out there and stop thinking about whatever it is you won’t tell me."Very loosely inspired by the movie Serendipity. Oliver takes a work trip days before his wedding with his friend to clear his head and gain some closure, but things don't exactly go according to plan.





	One Last Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter title is from the song Gone Away by Safetysuit. (Want some more insight into Oliver? Listen to it. You won't regret it)

I’d like to say it ended the day I walked away from him and boarded the train, the smell of his family’s suntan lotion and his own sweat still caught on the fibers of my shirt. He watched, as I knew he would, almost numbingly I assume. He watched me disappear in much the same way I watched the life I’d created disappear with each inch placed carefully and deliberately between us. I traced the lines of my hands he’d traced hours before and remembered the tender way he would caress my arms, my ankles, my face. He always looked at me as if I were worthy of comparison to the pieces he transcribed late into the night, his touch as purposeful and sure on the keys of a piano as they were on my spine.

I’d like to say it ended then, but he lingered on. Perhaps it’s more appropriate to attribute the actual “End” of what I experienced, the profound alteration to my mind and soul, perhaps that end belongs to a much farther, more obscure date— that is, the day I decided to go to Italy at all, the end of my sanity and our time together happening simultaneously before anything had even been done, before I’d even seen his face. I’d been met with nothing but criticism for the decision to go, the occasional fit of jealousy thrown in on her part for good measure, a reassurance of the need to disappear, to gain distance from the proximity of expectation and responsibility.

Though I suppose in retrospect it isn’t fair to attribute the end of what we had been to anything other than the moment I saw him again after all that time, the moment we laid in his bed and I swore I could never be myself again. Perhaps it wasn’t until I was next to him on the sheets we’d shared so many nights and he asked what she was like that it truly ended, that he’d given up on me, and I on him. He had always been there, if I’m honest. The question looming over my actions, _would he mind?_ Which is to say, would he be bold when I was unable to be, would he say what I myself had felt all along and beg me to stay, to forget the ring I’d already bought, to cover him with my own body once more if only he asked one more time with the refusal to accept my lousy excuses.

Then again, could I truly look down at the hands he once held and say with absolute certainty that it was over, even now? That I no longer thought of his warm hands pressed carefully against the spaces of my body I didn’t realize could react with vulnerability and something I dared never to identify? Could I truly stare out the window of the plane and call it a coincidence that when I sleep at night, it is he who haunts my dreams, not the woman I am to marry in only a few short days? Is it fair to any of us to pretend I couldn’t still feel him moan against my shoulder every time water poured over my body in the shower?

“Oliver?” I can’t tell how many times my name has been called, too lost in the memory of him whispering his name to focus on anything other than the way the clouds outside the plane seemed to form into his features relentlessly. “You have to snap out of it.”

“I know,” I mutter, clearing my throat until it no longer feels wrong to avoid speaking his name.

“You have a chance—”

“I said I know.” My voice is thick; can he tell I’ve not slept in days by the slight tremor in it? Elio would notice, I think. But I can’t think of such things any more, because whether I want to admit it not, it is, to put any sort of label on it at all, _over_.

Marcus had volunteered to accompany me on my trip to England to examine several artifacts pertaining to the research my department was doing at the university. How I was granted the opportunity to go still laid beyond my understanding, though I could safely assume Prof. had something to do with it; he was always commenting about this opportunity and that, hoping one would land and I’d finally shake myself out of whatever stupor he must have noticed I’d fallen into. The fact that the trip finished days before the wedding was a coincidence, though Marcus insisted it was anything but. _It’s a sign, one last opportunity for you to get out there and stop thinking about whatever it is you won’t tell me._

He knew me better than most, and while he’d asked before, he didn’t truly know— nor did I believe he wanted to— about my sexuality. I hadn’t even been completely certain for most of my life, and still to this day questioned what was wrong with me, so putting the weight on him felt cruel. He would like Elio, I knew this with certainty, a thought that made me dizzy for its mere presence in my head taking up valuable space that should have been preoccupied with thoughts of the wedding.

He hadn’t RSVP’d. His parents had called to let me know they wouldn’t make it, which I assumed meant as much as his own refusal to come, but I still would have liked a confirmation, some sort of reassurance that seeing me marry her would be too painful for him to withstand, that his choice to stay home had everything to do with our summer. Perhaps then he’d validate my own hesitation.

It wasn’t fair.

“We came out here for one last thing, please don’t ruin it.” I nod and shrug his words off. The implication is thick underneath them that I’d done it before, ruined other things for him, for myself, for god knows who.

“I won’t.”

* * *

The worst part is I’m happier than I’ve ever been, or least I’m _as_ happy as I’ve ever been. She’s wonderful and beautiful and though we fight, we’ve always made up. She’s a constant in my life that so rarely has anything even remotely resembling stability. When I get in my own head over matters that shouldn’t necessarily concern me, she’s there to tell me to let go of what I can’t control. I couldn’t be absolutely certain of her awareness of my issues with anxiety, but I could guess she’d noticed and these “Let go” moments were her way of helping. It was more than anyone else had ever given me, so I latched on.

Anyone, that is, except for him.

I still recall the night it began getting to me and bringing me down until I sank to my knees, his hands in my hair pulling me near, a gesture meant to comfort. He had been wearing my boxers and nothing else, his form sprawled out on the floor against my own as he hummed a piece by Strauss and delicately traced patterns into my chest hair while my heart slowed.

The sound of my own blood rushing through my body had overwhelmed me that night and I knew then that he had known darker times before me for how instinctually and easily he handled my pain. He never asked what hurt or what had happened, only knelt next to me and smiled, pressed his nose against my skin, allowed my hands to grasp fistfuls of his hair in the absence of a shirt to grab hold of. He draped my leg over his and his over mine until my focus pulled from the summer’s end and shifted towards the way I couldn’t tell where he began and I ceased to exist. When he kissed me, it lacked all sense of urgency and desperation as it normally did when he initiated. After laying on the floor, he kissed my knee and told me I was everything, though he didn’t elaborate and I was too terrified to hear him confess the meaning behind his seemingly innocuous words. I wanted to be everything, I wanted him to continue to be _my_ everything, as well— though admittedly, I’d never tell him, and he’d never confirm.

He held me in his arms that night unlike he ever had before, his body pressed against my back as he tapped out the rhythm of his latest work on my chest absentmindedly. I never told him this was the worst distraction when I was trying to sleep, his hands on my body, pretending his touch was nothing but innocent. Knowing all along that I’d fucked him on top of the sheet music for the piece he was tapping against my skin like a lullaby.

I missed him dearly.

* * *

Light scattered across his back in delicate lines meant only to warm, not to harm, caught on the beads of sweat between his slim shoulder blades. His eyelashes flutter against his skin as the corners of his lips lift just enough to tell me he doesn’t mind being awoken. My fingers, the ones carefully tucked into the natural wave of his hair, soothe the flyaways gently so as not to disturb him too much. There aren’t enough words to express the jolt that travels through me when, while his eyes flutter closed once more and his face remains a facade of peaceful serenity, his toes find their way to my calf and press against me. My fingers drift from his hair and touch the dip in his spine near the place the sheet has fallen around his waist. I wait for a response, smile when he shivers and leans closer to press his lips against my shoulder tentatively.

“Oliver,” he draws out slowly, his voice sleepy and sensual as his toes abandon my calf in favor of draping his entire leg over mine and attempting to pull me closer with the sheer strength of his thigh before giving up; he scoots in to pull my hand out so he can rest his head on my arm, a slight ghosting of his lips on my bicep tickling before he nips at the skin and settles with a smile. It makes me laugh; he’s always playful when I least expect it.

I card my fingers through his hair once more, unable to resist, and he sighs against me, his leg shifting. Trailing my fingertips down his spine and backup to curl into this hair, then down again, he shifts once more and gently bites the inner flesh of my arm as it sits under his cheek. _“Oliver,”_ he whispers, his chest rising and falling faster as I continue my exploration of skin only to be ceased by his less than subtle press of his hips against my thigh. _“Oliver,_ ” he whispers again, more fervently, pressing harder still and I tilt his head to look me in the eyes.

“Oliver!” I jolt awake, forehead sweaty, still dressed in what I wore on the plane. “Jesus, you were out. Come on, I’m starving. If we sleep any longer we won’t get used to London time until we’re leaving.” I know he’s right, but I can’t stop the anger in my chest for being ripped from the only solace I can find these days.

* * *

 

Marcus suggests we explore before my responsibilities call me away to the British Museum; he bought a guide book, two actually, and has a notebook filled with pages of places to see. I follow along and try to immerse myself in his enthusiasm to distract from the message she left at the hotel for me when we were leaving.

 

_I hope you’re safe. Don’t let M get into too much trouble. Call when you can, I’ll be awake._

_All my love_

* * *

 

Two orders of fish and chips later, we relax into the subtle breeze I’m sure I wouldn’t have noticed if I wasn’t looking for some form of life in the air around me. We stare at the water wordlessly, though I feel his gaze landing heavy on me. He has never asked out-rightly what happened, what changed, but I sensed he knew enough by observation.

When I’d returned, we got drunk and laid on the floor of his bedroom while I stared at the ceiling, his questions falling on the rug below us, forgotten. Was I alright? Of course. Just jetlagged. He said he understood. He didn’t.

There was a night a few months ago, right after I’d visited B. for Christmas, when he asked me rather abruptly if I’d gotten it out of my system yet. I stared at him longer than I had any right to until he nodded, _I won’t tell, it’s alright._ No, I told him. I didn’t. We left it at that and he seemed to sense it was a subject I had no interest in returning to, at least not then, perhaps not ever.

It wasn’t until he insisted on accompanying me to England that I realized he knew all along that I was still struggling to leave Italy in the past, despite never truly knowing what— or rather, who— I couldn’t let go of. I managed to get him to admit as much a few nights ago, his tentative “I just want you to move on and be happy” shattering much of my resolve to keep this from him any longer.

It turns out silence truly can kill you, slowly, internally, if you grant it the power to do so.

“His name is Elio,” I say softly to no one, to everyone, fearing the consequences of not speaking his name another moment longer though the mere mentioning of him overwhelms and I find my eyes watering on command as my throat tightens and hands shake to no avail. _Elio._

I don’t look but I know he nods, another silent form of communication we’ve grown adept at portraying. _I understand. You can tell me. I won’t judge._

“I never...I never got to tell him…” Words fail me despite the seemingly fluid way they rush around my head and spin circles around one another. I feel like I’m drowning, like the grey clouds above us will swallow me whole if I don’t say everything, will pour out over me if I do. It was always a lose-lose with him.

It was always a win-win.

A shift in perspective, that’s what he’d told me once. _You need a shift in your perspective. Try looking at this way—_. I could still feel his hands pulling pages out of my own and scribbling notes on the margins of my manuscript to help me see. He always saw too much.

“Tell him what?” Marcus prompts. I glance at him and shrug, wipe the moisture off my cheeks hastily. “So he’s why you can’t let go? He’s the son, right?” I nod. “I wondered.”

“You wondered?”

“You were different when you returned the first time, and then even worse after Christmas. I knew it had to be something there. They sent you a Christmas card and he was on it. You had that damn thing up on your desk until two weeks ago, Oliver. I wondered.”

The waves are only as big as the rocks they hit here, disrupted only enough to feel altered by the forces around them they cannot control. I’m no longer certain as to whether I am a wave or a rock.

We say nothing else on the subject until we’ve returned to the hotel later that evening after he’s explored and I’ve begun documenting the Herculaneum relief fragments I’d come for. His voice is kind but it startles me nevertheless. “Do you want to let go of Elio?” he asks. I stare at him blankly. Did I want to let go of him? Of course, I needed to in order to get married. He nods. “Does he know? That you’re still in love with him?”

“Marcus—”

“Hey man, you know out of everyone I’m not going to judge you.” I think back to the girl he married, how he’d met her while dating someone else. They’d been less discreet. “You spent a few weeks with him and you’re still this...this…” he shakes his head and trails off.

“He knows, I think.”

“You think?”

“I can’t exactly call him and tell him that despite the fact that I am about to get _married_ that I can’t stop thinking about him!”

“Why not?” I stare at him and scoff.

“You’ve got to be kidding me—”

“Why not? I’m serious! I’ve never seen you like this, Oliver. If you go through with this wedding then you at _least_ need closure, Jesus.”

“Yeah, well that’s not going to happen.” I turn towards the wall of windows and stare out over the city.

“What do you think is going to happen? Hmm?” he stares at me; I see him through the reflection in the glass and lower my head to escape. He’s never spoken to me in this way before, and while he had always been passionate and loyal as hell, he’d never been tested with me. “Are you afraid he won’t want to talk to you? Because if he doesn’t, then there’s your answer— the door is closed.”

“And if he does?” I ask quietly. We’d been writing letters, though infrequently and never discussing anything of real importance. He would take my call, I’m sure of it.

“Then he either wants you, too, or he doesn’t. Either way, you don’t have to sit here with the what-ifs running through your head.” I turn and look at him, a bit surprised that he’s so aware of what’s happening in my mind though we’ve never discussed this. “Oh don’t give me that look. I’ve known you for how long? I know you do this. Come on, seriously. I _know_ you want to call him. Just do it, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“The worst— it could fuck everything up!” I say, exasperated.

“You mean, he could want you and the marriage doesn’t happen but you get to be with him? Oliver, god, do you hear yourself? That’s not bad!”

“It’s not _right_ ,” I mutter. He shakes his head. He told me once that his brother is gay, I suppose he’s the only person in the world that I know except Elio and perhaps Prof. who would shake his head at my words, and I know it. There isn’t much I can do, though. There were expectations to live up to and society to consider.

“If you won’t call him, I will. I can’t watch you marry her if you’re not positive you want it, man.”

* * *

 

I know he’s right, the thought pressing into every thought I have as I try to fall asleep that night, finally giving up and looking at the time. It was late in Italy, but perhaps, just maybe— it was possible they were still awake if they had guests. I wander downstairs and ask to use their long distance phone line undisrupted.

It rings longer than it should and I nearly give up on everything in the spaces between harsh ringing until static gives way to a voice I felt deep in my chest, rumbling around and refusing to let me go until I’m warm. “Yes, hello?”

“Prof.,” I smile, head falling back.

“Oliver! Love, it’s Oliver! How are you? Ready for the big day? We sent along a package, hopefully it arrives soon.”

“It arrived yesterday morning, I believe. We haven’t opened it just yet but it was a wonderful surprise. Thank you.”

“Of course! Oh—”

“Hello, darling!” I smile and fold my free arm over my chest.

“Hello Annella, thank you for the package it was a wonderful surprise.”

“Oh, we wish we could go. It’s been so crazy here!” she says. I nod; I knew the summers always were for them. “How’s the planning? Is it consuming?”

“I remember the days before our wedding, Annella was so worried the flowers wouldn’t be right,” Prof. chuckles. It makes me miss them immensely.

“It’s not too bad,” I say as if I paid any attention to those things. “I’m actually not stateside right now, so I’m a bit out of touch with it. I’ll be back there the day before the wedding.”

“My goodness— where are you?” Prof. asks.

“London, actually. Remember that project the department was talking about bringing me on for? Well they did, I found out kind of last minute and they sent me here.” I glance back at the front desk people and smile to make up for the time I’m taking up. They’re polite but I can tell they’re bothered.

“London! You’re in London—”

“Wow, well that is something else, congratulations.”

“—darling, before you leave you must see Elio.”

Ever since I was a kid, I’d stay up late reading books, too late in fact. When I don’t slept for awhile, the edges of my vision begin to blur together, the result a sort of disorientation that begs nothing of me except that my eyes be permitted to close, just for a moment, and then a moment more, until the weakness in my joints settles and I can recover from the damage I’ve done by staying awake, by resisting. It’s the same when I swim in the ocean and open my eyes underwater, a disoriented sting under the coolness of a wave, limbs lighter and more fluid in movement, the blurriness slight, just enough to remember that something is off. The moments when I am simultaneously exceedingly heavy and impossibly weightless as I do what I can to merely exist when the floor disappears beneath me and I step outside of myself.

The realization comes quickly and forcefully like a good book or a wave pulling me under until I no longer have the willpower to resist the temptation to cave.

He’s in London.

 

* * *

 


End file.
